Song of My Heart

by Barbara Baldwin

“Oh, dear.” Abby blanched, keeping the table between them as she scooted toward the door. She still held the plaid jacket against her as though for protection. She rattled the doorknob.

  “It’s locked.” He held up the key before inserting it in his vest pocket. “And it will remain so until you and I get our business done.”

  She gasped and turned even paler. “You can’t detain me, sir. It’s surely against the law.”

  “You will find, Miss O’Brien, that I tend to be a law unto myself when necessary.” Just then, the smell of dinner reached his nostrils and Max decided that business could wait until after he’d eaten.

  Taking care not to turn his back on her, he scooped beefsteak and potatoes onto a plate, smothering it all with gravy. After setting his plate at the table, he silently offered her an empty dish.

  She stared at him, eyes wide, lower lip trembling ever so slightly.

  “If my supper gets cold, you will pay dearly,” he said.

  Like a reticent child, she grudgingly took the plate. He remained standing while she selected a small portion of fresh fruit and a minuscule piece of meat. How did women manage on such meager fare?

  Only after he’d seated her across from him and poured them each a glass of dark red wine did she speak to him.

  “You’re obviously not a minister.” Although she’d set aside O’Flagherty’s coat, she kept glancing at it and Max decided he’d better set the record straight.

  “I’m not really Donal O’Flagherty, either. My name is Maxwell.”

  “Well, Mr. Maxwell, I would appreciate it if you would let me leave.” She’d squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. Brave woman, but hardly in a position to tell him what to do.

  “Maxwell Grant, but you can call me Max,” he clarified, relaxing against his chair. He grimaced, reaching around his back to pull his revolver from the waistband of his trousers. He leaned over and carefully placed it in the cabinet near the table.

  When he turned back to the table, she had dissolved into silent tears, her gaze glued to the drawer he’d just shut.

  “Now what?” If he lived to be a hundred, he doubted he’d ever understand women, even with four sisters, a sister-in-law and his stepmother. Tears made him very uncomfortable. He never knew if the lady in question was in real distress or playing on his sympathies.

  He watched Abby struggle to compose herself. He had the distinct impression she liked tears as little as he did. He wondered what made her so strong. Whatever it was, he found it a quality he liked in a woman.

  “Miss O’Brien?” Funny, he already thought of her as Abby, even though he felt obligated to use the more formal address.

  “Who are you really, and why do you have to wear disguises?” She paused, sucked in a breath and finished in a very small voice. “And what are you going to do with me?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, cutting into his steak. “At least not until after I’ve eaten.”

  She took another shuddering breath and Max sighed, looking across the table.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I actually work on the side of law and order.” He pointed to her plate. “Now eat.”

  “Do you have identification?”

  Max realized he wouldn’t get to eat if she kept pestering him, so he reached in the drawer where he’d placed his gun and drew out a slim leather wallet. He tossed it across the table then picked up his fork. If she wanted her supper to get cold, that was fine with him.

  He didn’t look up again until he heard the clink of her silverware against the china.

  “Why aren’t you married, Miss O’Brien?” The question popped out of nowhere.

  She toyed with the wallet containing his badge. He watched conflicting emotions play across her face—determination, followed closely by confusion.

  “Margaret Fuller says it’s not necessary for a woman to be married. In fact, she advocates that women should seek careers and fulfillment outside of marital duties.”

  “Really,” Max said. “And just who is this paragon of feminine liberty?”

  “Miss Fuller wrote Women in the Nineteenth Century quite some years ago, but I have just recently read it. And while I believe there is truth in her words, I do find it rather hard to live up to all the expectations.”

  “Why can’t you just be content being a woman?”

  “I am a woman.”

  “I mean a wife and mother,” Max amended.

  “There is a very large difference, Mr. Grant. I’ll never reach that destination if I don’t try different things first. Wouldn’t it be better if I discovered my assets now, than to run off from a husband and children after a few years of marriage?”

  “You would do that?” Max was incredulous that such a thought would enter anyone’s head.

  “No, of course not. It was just an example.” She sipped her wine.

  “I didn’t mean to criticize,” he said, hoping his comments wouldn’t cause her to stop talking. Espousing feminism appeared to give her courage. If that, along with his identification, eased her mind, he would get to the business at hand all the quicker. Besides, he thoroughly enjoyed the musical lilt of her voice and the way the candlelight played off the green of her eyes. She tended to speak with her hands and had almost knocked over her wine glass in her ardent defense of feminism.

  “Interestingly enough, I’m well versed in the efforts of suffragists like Mrs. Anthony and Lucy Stone, though I can’t say I agree with their flamboyant methods.” He heard about it every time he visited Boston, even though the oldest of his sisters was only fourteen. He shuddered to think what her views would be by marrying age.

  His comments appeared to ease her discomfort, at least to the point of eyeing the side table that still held a great amount of food.

  “Please, help yourself.”

  This time, she heaped her plate with potatoes and gravy. At his smile, she blushed.

  “I never have been a dainty eater, I’m afraid. Our sideboard was always bowed under the weight of dozens of dishes. Papa went through terrible times in Ireland. When he came to Boston to make a name for himself, he determined his pantries would never be empty, and no person he ever came across would go hungry.” She shook her head ruefully. “Mother always had one or two extra plates at the supper table, not to mention the dock workers and urchins Papa had Cook feed in the kitchen.”

  “You sound like you miss them.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  Abby ate several bites of potatoes and Max thought she meant to ignore him. Finally she wiped her mouth with a napkin and raised her gaze to his. They say the eyes are a mirror to the soul, and if that were the case, Abby was a confused young lady. He detected defiance, distress and perhaps a hint of mischief.

  “My father worked very hard to build his shipping business and make a name for himself. My mother was a Boston socialite. They fell in love and married, despite the fact he wasn’t well accepted among the Boston elite. If it hadn’t been for her family connections, we would never have been included in polite circles.”

  He was very familiar with her story. His own parents had been born and raised in Boston and had always been part of the upper crust of society. Regardless of the fact America had long since broken away from Britain, some rules, like the social hierarchy, still existed.

  “Mother believes the only way I can survive in this world is to marry well. Lord knows I tried to do what she and Father wanted, but no matter how much I loved them…” Her shoulders slumped briefly, then she continued. “She chose Dilbert Crabtree for me. Of the Virginia Crabtrees?”

  Her question assumed he knew everyone on the eastern seaboard. He shook his head.

  “Well, it doesn’t signify, for I refused to succumb to marriage just for the sake of my place in society. Besides, Dilbert thinks too very much of himself and his ancestry. He’s a snob. I decided I wanted something more.” Her eyes twinkled and Max caught a glimpse of an impish smile.

  �
��Mother was furious when I refused his suit. According to her, he was the best catch in the county. As though he were a fish or something.” She sounded thoroughly disgusted. “I hate fish.”

  Max burst out laughing. She was delightful in her disregard for polite society’s rules. He shook his head, regarding her. Most of the women of his acquaintance were of two kinds—married with husband and children, or married looking for an adventurous liaison when a husband became too busy to give her the attention she wanted.

  In his line of work, he had little chance to meet fresh innocents like Abby. She may be over twenty years old and thinking herself an independent young miss, but she knew little about the world outside of her sheltered existence in Boston.

  Still, he gave in to the urge to tease her. “I suppose your Mr. Crabtree didn’t care for your suffragist views, did he?”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  He chuckled. “Most men don’t.”

  “I don’t understand. Why is it such a scandal for women to take positions and make money? Men do it. But when Cornelius Vanderbilt set Victoria Woodhull and her sister up in a brokerage business, why heavens, you would have thought…well, I frankly don’t know why people created such a stir over it.”

  Victoria Woodhull, a woman who courted scandal at every turn. The fact that Abby had read about her raised an interesting point, though. “Believing as you do in the suffragist movement, do you also believe in the idea of free love that Miss Woodhull espouses?”

  Color stained her cheeks. “Oh, my, no. Why I’ve never even…I mean I haven’t actually thought about…” She sputtered to a stop.

  Max chuckled, saluting her with his wine glass. “I appreciate your innocence, but I worry that you won’t maintain it for long if you insist on your current course.”

  The weight of responsibility settled over him. There were no laws requiring young women to live at home, regardless of their parents’ wishes. If he couldn’t make her go home, he knew without doubt he would look after her. Taking care of gently reared females was ingrained in him as deeply as seeking justice. Even so, while she remained pliable from a good meal, he really needed some answers.

  “Shall we adjourn to the observation room?” He stood, coming around the table to slide back her chair.

  She hesitated when they walked past the plaid coat, lying abandoned on the chair and making Max feel guilty for deceiving her.

  “I should have known you weren’t an Irishman. How could I not have seen past that red wig?”

  “I swear to you my grandfather was Irish. I’ll show you papers if you wish.”

  “I wish you to be honest with me, Mr. Grant.” Her accusation cut him to the quick.

  They walked the narrow corridor to the back of the train car while he sought to at least partially explain. “When I introduced myself to you earlier, I should have explained my disguise. I sometimes find it necessary in my line of work not to reveal who I really am.”

  They had come to the observation room at the back of the car and she stepped away from him. “Is that badge fraudulent? Are you running from the law?”

  “No, not at all. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

  “Who has to wear a minister’s disguise to ride a train.” She raised a brow in disbelief, looking around the opulent Pullman car. “And did you borrow this train car as part of your disguise?”

  “It’s a convenient way for me to travel.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What, exactly, do you do?”

  Max’s position with the government depended on secrecy, and he never carried the badge he had shown her. But he didn’t want to lie. “Sometimes, I investigate problems for people, but right now, I’m looking for my brother. Which brings me to the point of why you are here.” He led her to the sofa and seated her, but remained standing.

  He took his watch, unhooked the chain from his vest button and held it up. It rotated hypnotically in front of her.

  “Does this look familiar?”

  Abby opened her mouth in astonishment. She quickly glanced to the watch she wore.

  “How…?”

  “You will always know one another’s heart,” Max said, his deep voice mesmerizing her just as the slowly spinning watch did.

  She shook her head, not believing he quoted the verse engraved inside the watch cover. “I don’t understand. How do you know that?”

  “The watch you’re wearing belongs to my brother. I want to know how it came to be in your possession.” He reattached the chain to his vest button, then tucked the watch away.

  Abby found herself fascinated by his long fingers, the nails blunt and cleanly cut, his knuckles very lightly covered with dark hair. She remembered thinking his features never quite matched that of the redheaded Donal O’Flagherty. She looked up at his dark eyebrows and eyelashes. How had she not noticed?

  “Well?” The simple word pulled her back to the matter at hand.

  “I already told you, I won it in a poker game.”

  “From Montgomery Grant?”

  “I never knew his name.”

  “What did he look like?”

  She preferred not to recall those weeks in Chicago, but apparently it was necessary to Max, so she closed her eyes and tried to remember.

  “He was shorter than you, with light brown hair and a scar.”

  “A scar?”

  “Is that important?” She opened her eyes to see a curious expression cross his features.

  “I believe it might be. Tell me.”

  “It ran from his eyebrow,” she slid her finger along her face, “down to the corner of his mouth.”

  Max ran his hands through his hair and she thought he looked quite handsome in a disheveled sort of way.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “You’re saying the man you won the watch from didn’t look like me?” He stood in front of her, hands on hips, allowing her to scrutinize him.

  Abby did, even though she knew without doubt she would never have forgotten him had she met him before, or even anyone looking slightly like him. He was tall and devilishly handsome with dark features, a full mouth and blue eyes that changed colors with his moods. Yes, she definitely would have remembered.

  “No, the man with the watch looked nothing like you.” She started to shake her head, but stopped. “There was another man…”

  Max grabbed a chair and dragged it over in front of her. He sat, elbows propped on knees and hands clasped in front of him. “Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

  She leaned back against the sofa. “Is it so very important to know every detail?”

  He began nodding before she even finished her sentence.

  She pursed her lips, trying to decide exactly where to start—when she was fool enough to have her money stolen, or when she began working in a saloon. Neither story was one she wanted to admit, but from the intense look on his face, she didn’t have much choice.

  “It’s very hard for a woman to survive on her own. What I did, I had to do,” she began, then hesitated. She wasn’t sure why she cared about his opinion of her, but she did. “I will tell you what I know, but I must ask that you not judge me. Can you do that?”

  Max gave her a strange look. “Believe me, I am in no position to judge another person, be they male or female. All I am concerned about is my brother’s well-being.”

  Even with that assurance, Abby felt embarrassed to sit in front of him and confess her sins. She scooted off the sofa and walked to the window. Staring into the night, she allowed the rocking motion of the train to soothe her.

  “I already told you my reasons for leaving Boston. I was ready to be independent, and I would have been all right except for that ruffian in Chicago.” She shivered, not wanting to relive the horror of that day. “I was waiting at the station for the Burlington to Quincy. A man grabbed my carpetbag right out of my hands and ran away. I gave chase, but fell, and Mr. Faro rescued me.”

  “You ran after the man who had
just accosted you and taken your bag?” Max’s voice was full of accusation.

  She turned her head and leveled him a look. “I asked that you not judge my actions.”

  He held up his hands. “Sorry. Who’s Faro?”

  “Mr. Faro owns the Calypso Saloon. Upon hearing my story, he offered me a job dealing poker at his place of business.”

  “What man in his right mind would—” He stopped when she shot him another look. “All right, all right, I won’t interrupt again. But when you’re through, you and I are having a serious talk about a woman’s place and a man’s responsibilities.”

  “Kate Nye-Starr says there’s great value in women knowing business and how to take care of themselves.”

  “Whoever she is, I seriously doubt she meant for you to do it by gambling.”

  Abby shrugged, deciding to ignore his comments since he couldn’t seem to refrain from making them. “I spent a lot of time at the docks with my father when I was younger. Several old seamen taught me all sorts of useful things.”

  Max snorted, but refrained from saying anything this time.

  “One night, Mr. Faro asked me to take a particular table where a high stakes game had commenced. The dealer had already been there several hours. At that moment, one young man jumped up, accusing another of cheating. Mr. Faro had to intervene. The younger man left with Mr. Faro and I never got a good look at him.”

  She squinted at Max. “Stand up and turn around.” He did as she requested. She studied his backside for a moment. “The man who left could have been your brother, but I’m just not sure. I took the dealer’s seat. The man with the scar raked in the winnings, and I do remember the watch in the middle of a pile of bills.”

  Max shook his head. “I can’t believe my brother would be foolish enough to gamble away his watch. What was there about the man that would make Monty leave the watch as a way of trailing him? Can you tell me any more about the man with the scar?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. I believe he did cheat, though I can’t say exactly how. He didn’t stay long after I began dealing. I wouldn’t flirt with him like some of the other girls did. I think it made him mad.” She turned from the window, clasping her hands in front of her, hoping her explanation would suffice.